Analysis of The Hock-cart, or Harvest Home
Robert Herrick 1591 (London) – 1674 (Dean Prior)
To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland
Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Dress'd up with all the country art.
See, here a malkin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
(Clad, all, in linen, white as lilies.)
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart, hear, how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart; some kisses the sheaves;
Some prank them up with oaken leaves;
Some cross the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat;
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast, fat beef,
With upper stories, mutton, veal,
And bacon, (which makes full the meal)
With sev'ral dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here all tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care, stout beer,
Which freely drink to your lord's health,
Then to the plough, (the common-wealth)
Next to your flails, your fanes, your fats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats;
To the rough sickle and crook'd scythe,
Drink frolic boys, till all be blythe.
Feed and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat
(As you) may have their fill of meat
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, (though they're hang'd up now.)
And, you must know, your lord's word's true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you.
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.
Scheme | A BBCCXXDDEEFFGGHHIIJJXEAAXXXKKLLMMANXNOOPPXXEEEQQRRSSTTX |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1011111010 11110111 11011101 1111011 111111101 11011111 01011101 11110101 11110101 11010101 11011111 01010110 110101110 01010101 11110111 01011101 1101101 100111010 110101110 110111001 1111111 11011111 01010111 110111 11111 1101111 11111111 11101111 11110101 01011111 11010101 01011101 1110101 11010101 011101 01110101 11011101 11111111 11011111 11010101 11111111 11011101 101100101 11011111 10110111 11010111 11111111 01011101 01011001 01111001 01011111 01111111 11111111 01110111 11111111 11111101 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 2,132 |
Words | 388 |
Sentences | 13 |
Stanzas | 2 |
Stanza Lengths | 1, 55 |
Lines Amount | 56 |
Letters per line (avg) | 29 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 813 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 192 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 30, 2023
- 2:00 min read
- 280 Views
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"The Hock-cart, or Harvest Home" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 1 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/31392/the-hock-cart%2C-or-harvest-home>.
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